


While My Guitar Gently Weeps

by merelypassingtime



Series: Meretricious Melodies [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Based on a song, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, References to Depression, flagrant overuse of song lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 01:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14801931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: Sherlock worries about his depression and nightmares when John and Rosie move back to Baker Street.He should have had more faith in John.





	While My Guitar Gently Weeps

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my beta no-reason-at-all, who took this from a very roughly written idea to the story it became. All mistakes remaining are my own.

Sherlock was thrilled when John hesitantly asked if there might be room for him and Rosie to move back into 221b with him. Then he was terrified.

It had been a long time since they lived under the same roof, and in those golden days before Sherlock had ruined everything, they had been different men. Sherlock had been whole in mind and body then; now he bore scars. The physical ones pale in comparison to the mental ones that shattered his already rare rest with nightmares and transformed his occasional dark moods into gravitational wells of despair. He had hidden these from John successfully so far, but he knew that his luck could never hold with John, a full time resident, with him again.

Indeed, John and Rosie hadn’t yet finished settling in the first time they returned from some errand to find Sherlock curled up on the sofa, frozen hard in his own private hell of depression.

John, standing in the door, huffed in annoyance at the sight of Sherlock’s back turned to the room and ushered Roise into the kitchen for a snack.  
Sherlock heard them clearly, Roise banging her juice bottle on the tray of her high chair while John moved around to make tea. He screamed at himself that there was still time; if he could just get up and move to his bedroom a few dozen feet away John needn’t know that this was more than a simple sulk, but his treacherous transport refused his commands.  
He was still fighting to move when John came back into the room.

“If you’re not too busy with your strop,” he said, his voice that blend of fond and annoyed that was so uniquely John. “I have tea for you.”

When Sherlock couldn’t answer, John sighed again. “Look, you great git, it’ll just get cold and I’m not making you another.”

Another moment of silence passed.

“Sherlock?” John asked, his voice now tinged with concern. He rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and craned over his still form to look at Sherlock’s face.

No doubt he’d expected a petulant sulk or the blankness of a man lost in deep thought and he gasped in surprised to find whatever horrid rictus Sherlock could feel his face set into. Sherlock only glimpsed John’s look of slight irritation before it fell from his face, replaced by concern.

Calmly, he turned, walking back into the kitchen were Roise was presumably still in her high chair sipping her juice. With strained cheer he said, “Hey, baby bee. How ‘bout we pay a little visit to Grandma downstairs?”

Rosie answered with squeals and giggles. 

“Yeah, I thought you’d like that. You already know Mrs Hudson’s a free hand with the biscuits. Let’s go see if she has anything in.”

Sherlock listened as steps retreated back down the stairs, again wishing he could get up and try to pass the whole thing off as nothing but a fleeting experiment, but he remained unable to move.

John was back quickly and Sherlock braced himself for a well-meaning brace of words and platitudes that would succeed only in making him feel more like a freak and a failure.

He should have had more faith in John.

Without a word, John gently manhandled Sherlock’s unresponsive form until he could sit on the end of the sofa, Sherlock’s head resting in his lap.  
Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, still shrouded in blackness and misery, but obscurely glad not to be there all alone anymore. Tender fingers began to card kindly through the tangled mess of Sherlock’s curls, and John sang something soft and low. 

_I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping_  
_While my guitar gently weeps_  
_I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping_  
_Still my guitar gently weeps._

The tune was familiar from somewhere in the depths of his memory, and with a monumental effort Sherlock was able to pull his gaze from the ceiling to look at John. The dim light filtering in from the street cast sharp shadows across John’s face as he stared straight ahead, his eyes focused on something or thought Sherlock couldn’t fathom, his face set in lines of sadness as he continued.

_I don't know why nobody told you_  
_How to unfold your love_  
_I don't know how someone controlled you_  
_They bought and sold you._

When John turned his gaze down to Sherlock, Sherlock was startled to see the glisten of tears. Without thought Sherlock reached up to brush his fingertips against a wet cheek, finding the ability to move again in his need to wipe the tears off John’s face. In return, John used the hand not still running through his hair to dry the matching tears on Sherlock’s face and sing to him directly now.

_I look at the world and I notice it's turning_  
_While my guitar gently weeps_  
_With every mistake we must surely be learning_  
_Still my guitar gently weeps._

Suddenly, it was all too much for Sherlock. The intimacy of the moment and the love and compassion in John’s eyes as he looked at him overwhelmed him. He dropped his arm and rolled back to his side, pressing his face into the warmth of John’s stomach. Still, John’s song never wavered.

_I don't know how you were diverted_  
_You were perverted too_  
_I don't know how you were inverted_  
_No one alerted you._

With his eyes closed, John’s voice felt like a physical presence, covering him with peace, His words drifting through the fog around Sherlock's mind and shining in the gloom there. Sherlock gathered them to horde against the dark.

_I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping_  
_While my guitar gently weeps_  
_Look at you all_  
_Still my guitar gently weeps._

Sherlock didn’t realize he was drifting to sleep until he woke hours later, feeling more rested than he had in months.

The first thing he did after getting up and stretching was search for the song John had sung to him. He ending up buying several albums by a band called The Beatles on his phone. He set it to play something called the White Album while he moved towards the bathroom to shower and get ready to face the day.


End file.
